


Attention

by espritneo



Series: Dumpster Diving for Inspiration [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, a series of ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27490489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espritneo/pseuds/espritneo
Summary: Prompt: You look beautiful. More than usual, I mean.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: Dumpster Diving for Inspiration [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007811
Comments: 26
Kudos: 63





	1. I.

"You look beautiful. More than usual, I mean."

Bond flexed away a shiver and offered a polite, charming smile. "You flatter me, Quartermaster," he murmured to the alpha at his shoulder. His eyes scanned to the left as he breathed in; scouted to the right with an exhale. Patient, professionally still.

Each face or form that crossed his gaze, he reflexively named from memory. The Quartermaster hovered at the edge of his focus, in his space, but not touching, the millimeters between their dinner jackets an unspoken boundary.

Of professionalism.

Bond continued to breathe and scan. A soft whisper over the exposed inside of his left wrist resolved itself into the pads of two fingers, subtly marking him as the Quartermaster shifted away.

His next inhale was deeper. Out of sight, he clenched his fist. He scanned and he waited, although a part of him wished he had a reason to go on the offensive. Emotions inappropriate for the situation simmered below his awareness, his denial transforming them into violence that spread slowly under his skin, annoyingly sticky sweet like sweat.

Like heat.

A self-assessment confirmed it wasn’t him. Outside of the quartermaster’s perturbations, he was dry, stable, wholly in control. That was the important part; emotions, pheromones, as powerful as they were in the moment, were inherently transient. 

This, too, would pass. Thus, it was irrelevant right now.


	2. II.

After the incident, 007 added the quartermaster to his off-mission schedule. With few exceptions, -Six agents chafed while homebound, suffocated by interdepartmental reports and forms to fill out. Missions were only useful if the information could be put into perspective in a shared server, after all. An active agent’s weariest burden was not threat of death and dismemberment, but of a thousand papercuts from updating health forms and reviewing files pending approval.

And this was after filing their own 80-page mission reports.

The institutionally acceptable form of escape was recertification. The gun range, a monstrosity that spanned the entire fifth floor, was split in half for rifle and handgun use, each with a military-branch TSS overseer. Lanes were typically booked out by 0830. Availability at the gym was similarly difficult to come by after 1000. Stragglers really looking to dispense nervous energy found themselves volunteering in training recruits just for the opportunity to go on the offensive in controlled situations and save their reflexes dribbling out of their ears from endless paper pushing.

Given the heavy competition and Bond’s personal aversion to arriving before 1100, his schedule reflected years of experience. There was no need for the gym when he had the essentials at the flat. He haphazardly alternated between getting lost in London neighborhoods for 20k and swimming laps at the bizarrely less occupied -Six pool. If anyone asked where Bond might be found, which no one had any business doing, his steps would be difficult to predict. 

However, the latest addition was, to anyone interested in his comings and goings. Bond typically spent two hours in the pool on swim days, freshened up in the adjacent locker room, and meandered one floor down to Q branch.

Minions, he rapidly determined, were key to unearthing the quartermaster's motivations. So he endeared himself to a trio in the second row - Peter, Nicholas and Mary - who spent approximately two thirds of their respective weeks working closely with Q. 

The quartermaster could do no wrong in Mary's eyes. She affectionately called him their overlord - _but not to his face, 007_ \- and was easily coaxed into catching him up with Q observations.

As a bonus, his strategy also yielded frequent fierce, furious side glances from the overlord himself. Bond felt the alpha's warning regard in the way the fine hairs rose between his shoulder blades. He didn't feel threatened. Nor was Q looking at him like prey. But his gaze was heavy all the same, coalescing into a pool of warmth from the back of his neck to the base of his spine, where a lesser omega would squirm from the tension and instinctively bare his belly.

Bond just rolled his neck, purposefully flashing unmarked skin flushed from hours of physical activity.

He especially enjoyed doing this mid conversation with Nicholas, a friendly hand on the analyst's shoulder, having just leaned back from sharing space in front of his computer screen. The animal part of James Bond, carefully subconscious, liked to think his ears detected a possessive subvocal growl.

Likely wishful thinking, as every time 007 caught the quartermaster's gaze head on, the man only shook his head in bland disapproval.


	3. III.

Q’s alpha hindbrain decides, within two minutes of meeting James Bond, that he was going to woo the fuck out of this unshakeable omega. It’s a lot naive and he’s aware no one crossed James Bond’s path without having the exact same thought. He is also aware that a single individual had ever turned James’ head.

Q decides it doesn’t matter; he’s been deconstructing security systems since he was in uni and he’s peerless in Britain. He _earned_ his arrogance and he is worth Bond’s consideration. 

Their verbal skirmish ends in a draw. James Bond actually looks at his face as they shake hands.

They part as equals and time makes them MI6’s best team. Without meaning to, Q gets distracted with analyzing the puzzle that is 007 in his many habitats. He forgets his original goal; no that’s not accurate. It just gets put in the backburner.

He’s horrified to one day realize that his instincts had gone ahead and claimed Bond as pack anyways. He’d gladly tear the throat out of anyone that tried to possess him.

And against his good judgement, he marks the man at a state dinner.


	4. IV. A-side

His grip stutters and it’s a miracle the tea barely spills before he clutches it to his abdomen. Where the fuck was James?

There’s a flash of light hair and he’s anticipating 007’s trajectory. He hangs on until the stairwell, where he makes a mistake and pulls up footage on the second floor. Bond’s nowhere in sight. His typing grows louder and after a five minutes of searching, he resists the urge to fling the keyboard off the platform.

He abruptly realizes that he’s been staring over his team’s heads with his mouth one muscle twitch away from showing his teeth. 

Nicholas cautiously raises his hand.

“What?” He relaxes the corners of his lips but his tone is still hostile. He has to lower his eyes in apology. His relationship with the beta is fracturing; he can’t look at the analyst without the image of Bond, bare-necked, looming over Nicholas’ station. The two men, too close, Nicholas’ hands on the keyboard but _Bond’s_ wandering: one planted on the back of Nicholas’ chair, the other never in the same place twice.

Right now, though, Nicholas looks remarkably guilty. “Sir, I think, Bond’s manipulating our camera access.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well,” he admits, “We’ve been discussing the image compression and deconvolution project....and I’ve been teaching him the branch OOP language.”

“Don’t you think,” Q asks flatly, “that you should have notified your superior?”

Q whirls back to his computer. He can work with this. What he has to do is dissect Nicholas’ code out of the software. Bond might be able to outmaneuver him again, but it won’t be before the end of the mission. As he typed, his chest battled with a maelstrom of emotions: utter pride in his berk of an omega, instinctive worry that threatens to overwhelm, and utter fury at Bond’s lack of professionalism.

R sidles up and says lowly, “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” 

“Yes,” Her words are able to get to the heart of him. “I can process and recalibrate. Just let me deal with this first.”

Bringing Bond back on the monitor isn’t difficult now that he’s privy to all necessary variables. It would be irresponsible to leave Bond unsupported, but he mutes his end of the radio. 

Bond doesn’t remark on the radio silence, not even when he receives his ticket and flight information by mobile and his sign-off is met with a cool, “Copy that.” 

Six hours later, Bond pretends to wander into Q-branch, as if they’re not able to calculate his arrival, traffic, the average post-mission processing time and come up with the formula for a homing missile of mischief.

“Q,” He tucks a smirk into a cheekbone and carefully extracts the equipment hard case from his suit jacket. The case is placed exactly in the middle, with a single thump. 007 rocks back into parade rest, expression unchanging.

Q knows he can't hide his fury. He has never been so angry with a human being his entire life. “Thank you, 007.” He articulates his words with the care he can’t be bothered to put into his expression. “Now, please leave.”

Bond's eyes twitch wider and he smoothes the tell into a toothy, insouciant smile. Q knows it's a mask. He's seen this face before: in Tehran after his fingers are deliberately broken, in Benghazi when they threatened to amputate, in cities that refuse to blur together. He can’t scent anything useful off the agent because of mandatory blockers, but he’s hit a defense mechanism and the primal satisfaction nearly makes him bare his canines.

Instead, he keeps his own features schooled and keeps his eyes on his agent. Finally, Bond tilts his chin and presents him with his back as he strides out of the department.

Point to Q in whatever fucking game Bond has decided they’re playing.


	5. IV. B-side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consider this and chapter 4 complete.

The situation exuded mission failure. It made him uncomfortable.

After leaving Q branch, he did something unusual and went to the gym. Agents were only beginning to trickle in. Bond ignored them all and found the treadmill closest to the back wall. It was occupied, so he leaned against the wall, trainers shoulder width apart. 

The agent on the treadmill absently glanced at him, violently flinched and stuttered. Bond waited patiently. 

The other man slowed to a stop and turned the machine off. Bond rolled his hips and pushed off the wall, covering the distance in one stride.

“All yours, Bond.” The other agent waved at the controls with forced casualness, taking one step back. He eyed Bond warily all the while and with visible reluctance, he turned around and walked away.

Bond jabbed settings for a sprint and jumped on, thighs opening up, easily compensating for the swiftly moving mat. He ran all-out until his heart pounded louder than his feet. On a superficial level, he was aware that the large room was clearing out instead of gaining occupants and that background noises were dissolving until he couldn’t pick out anything over the sound of his own rapid breathing.

The prickling under his skin refused to dissipate. From the treadmill, he moved to the punching bag. He forgot to wrap his fingers and he found that finding the right balance between power and preserving his skin gave the activity depth he normally didn’t deal with outside the field. 

His breathing slowed in time with his strikes and in this meditative state, his attention wandered.

He and Q had been at an impasse for weeks. Ever since the state dinner when Q uncharacteristically started a courting process and then backed down by failing to follow through. Physiologically, he was still dealing with Q’s abrupt cold shoulder as his body mistakenly upped the production of oxytocin and the threshold for dopamine production in anticipation of consistent, positive social stimuli.

Mentally, courting was an instinct that Bond generally deprioritized and it had been nearly seven years since he’d had any interest in participating. Just like then, an alpha was teasing him by being unavailable. It was infuriating. And borderline insulting. Mutual interest had rules and signals. This, whatever it was Q was trying to pull, wasn’t a game he knew how to play. 

He didn’t know when the switch happened. At some point, his curiosity had shifted into interest. He’d decided Q was worth his attention.

Meanwhile, in the name of intelligence gathering, he’d gotten comfortable, made acquaintances, acquired skills. No one in Q-branch startled when he walked through the door. Mary knew he’d accept espresso and never tea. He learned his target.

He’d been nesting and Q hadn’t so much as displayed a twitch of interest. As a matter of fact, the more he invaded Q’s territory, the less of the man’s attention he received. 

But the moment he became untrackable, Q took it personally. And now he was being punished.

Bond snarled and caught the wildly swinging bag. The _fucking balls_ on that pup. 

His phone pinged. It was an email from Tanner with a short note followed by a message chain from the facilities manager.

007,

Training facilities are common areas during normal business hours. Weapons are not permitted except on the fifth and sixth floors. Please refrain from co-opting the gym for private use. 

In other words, stop scaring agents away, Bond, or take your unresolved issues elsewhere. The staff are complaining they can’t do their job with you around.

Bill

Bond scowled and punched the bag hard enough to swing it off the hook.


	6. V.

The moment he enters his apartment, he knows it’s been disturbed.

Bond sits on an armchair, cradling Peter in the space between his thighs. Peter, the traitor, is dripping in contentment, tail waving slowly.

_Left, right, tick, tock._

Q doesn’t ask him how he circumvented the security. “What are you up to, Bond? Don’t think I’ve forgiven you for that stunt you pulled in Cairo.”

He’s not upset anymore. Still, his throat tightens at the memory. He shies away at the thought of losing Bond.

“What I did in Cairo was prove a point.” 

Q indignantly tosses his satchel. He doesn’t think twice about the padded leather hitting granite with a quiet thump. His focus is Bond and he circles closer, snarling, “What you proved is that you have no consideration for Q-branch. We have a clearly defined role and twenty individuals, myself included, _cannot do their jobs_ without eyes and ears on the ground. Your actions were disrespectful and undermine the confidence of every individual that works to bring you agents home.”

He looms over the armchair. The light of the lamp shines in his eye and he shifts an inch to the side. 

Peter escapes through their legs. 

“You also show passive-aggressive hostility towards me. I’ll forgive the latter, Bond. I’ve brought it onto myself and I’ve failed to apologize for the disrespect to you. But I won’t apologize for being angry when you toss aside professional conduct just to act out.”

His blue eyes are shadowed. “I was not acting out.” He sounds insulted.

“Mmm, I’m confident you were. You’ve been watching me for weeks. Impeccable thing such as yourself: you come down to my department, catch the attention of every individual, seduce them into helping you cause mischief, and then come back expecting a reaction?” He cocks his head, thinking. “What are you hoping to find?” 

“I want to find out what game you’re playing, Quartermaster. Because at the moment, it’s not one I find pleasant.” 

Q raises his eyebrows and takes a step back in surprise. He tries to see the situation from the other man’s perspective. “I didn’t expect that. Bond - ”

“James.”

He nods, accepting the rebuke. “James, I haven’t been playing a game. I behaved inappropriately at the state dinner and I reacted by doing what I thought was right.”

“Giving me the cold shoulder?”

“I was ashamed of my actions and you deserved better than an old-fashioned court.”

“Would you court if you were wanted?”

“Yes, of course. In a heartbeat.”

He has a split second to regret giving ground before James is crowding him against the wall. His eyes are dilated, but the rest of him is tense, giving nothing away. 

Q swallows hard. He’s at a disadvantage in this conversation. “James, I need you to take off the blockers.” 

The omega doesn’t move. He eventually backs away, motioning for him to stay put. He moves unerringly through the flat, despite never having been in Q’s space, into the toilet. The door clicks shut.

Q exhales and slumps over, processing his body’s conflicting signals. His hands are already trembling with excitement and they haven’t even touched. 

Yet, he’s jittery with fear. He takes another deep breath and reminds himself to focus. They haven’t finished their emotional and professional minefield of a conversation. 

But when James steps out of the bath, Q gets a whiff of his natural scent for the very first time. And it is _intoxicating_. 

He nearly forgets himself. It’s only the expression on James’ face that stops him in his tracks. The other man is clearly in command of his faculties. Once again, Q’s nearly put a foot in the wrong. His continued loss of control is terrifying.

James’ face thaws a bit. “You have my attention, Q.” His tone is soothing, but his expression is darkly satisfied. “And it seems I finally have yours.” 

With the blockers gone, James had nowhere to hide. Q inhales and there’s no hint of a lie. The desire is mutual. He can’t help the smile on his lips.

“Most definitely,” He murmurs. He stops a foot away and cups the other man on the hip. “Now what do you want with it?”

James exposes his neck. His hands, however, reach up and grip Q’s fingers warningly. “I’d ask you your intentions,” he drawls lightly, “your expectations, your limitations. I’d remind you that while you started this, I’m more than capable of finishing it. So,” His blue eyes flashed. “Do you think you’re worth my trust? Are you willing to follow me to the end of the line?”

“I know who you are, James. You’re a man that takes the straightest path to the goal and eliminates anything that gets in your way. I am a man that can give you that efficiency and I can find you anywhere in the world. If anything attempts to separate us, I’ll make them regret it.”

“And my job?”

“I expect you’ll continue to fuck for Her Majesty and I will be in your ear while you do so.” He gently twisted his hand out of James’ hold and pointedly palmed an arse cheek. “But this remains _ours_. As will mine. That is my limitation.”

“And your intention?”

“To demonstrate I’m worthy of your attention, of course.”

“Pup, you’ve had it and you wasted it.” Just like that, it seems their quiet war is over.

“Alright, fine. A date, Bond.”

James scoffs. ”People like us don’t _date_.” Bond has left his hands alone in favor of cupping his neck. Q tilts his head when nudged along. He’s completely on board with James trailing kisses up the side of his neck. The omega pauses and scents the tender area behind his jaw.

“Perhaps not, but we will now.” He urges them forward and Bond sidesteps. They end up rotating in circles, gravitating closer until there’s no space between them. They drift close to the kitchen and Q crowds his omega against the counter. 

“Is there anything you personally don’t like?" He asks seriously.

“Long walks on the beach,” The blue eyed agent says teasingly. “Standard triggers apply. Nonstandard: well, don’t cradle the royal jewels.”

“Even if it goes without saying,” It’s suddenly important that James look him in the eye. “I will _never_ knowingly hurt you.”

James looks startled. It’s genuine emotion and Q unthinkingly gives him a kiss. James parts his mouth on reflex. Q tastes his bottom lip before drawing it briefly into his mouth for a tiny suck.

James adjusts his head and presses in with a chest-deep rumble. Q lets him lick deep inside before drawing back a bit and taking back control. 

He ends the kiss before it gets too heavy, ignoring James’ protests. He tucks his nose against his omega’s throat, right where his scent was strongest and breathes gratefully.


End file.
